


Viscount Varric and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

by SailorFish



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: (if you can call it that), Courtroom Drama, Duty, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Loneliness, M/M, Mild Spoilers for Trespasser, Silly, Unfortunate Butchering of the Legal System
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 13:06:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6375940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorFish/pseuds/SailorFish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The worst thing about being the Viscount was having to act as judge. The worst thing about acting as judge was having to sentence your friend. Hawke is amused, Varric is not.</p><p>Started from a <a href="http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/15543.html?thread=61863607#t61863607">kinkmeme prompt</a> and then shifted direction a bit: <i>One of Varric’s new duties as the viscount is probably judging criminals, yes? And I imagine his ideas would be 10 times worse than the Inquisitor’s silliest ones, in an attempt to make Bran stop forcing him to deal with this crap. Any criminal (canon characters or OCs), any crime, any outcome as long as it's funny :D</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Viscount Varric and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

Varric was not having a good day.

“You stand before this court, accused of aggravated assault, wilful destruction of property, theft, …”

The list went on and on, and Varric zoned out. Bran was alright as far as stuffy fussbudgets went, but he had a terrible tendency to drone. The dwarf sighed. How did he even get into these messes? ‘The viscount has a responsibility to judge criminals,’ his ass. This whole affair was ludicrous.

It was also very popular. The throne room was stuffed to the brink, nobles and commoners alike craning their necks to see the proceedings. It was the first time the new viscount was fulfilling his duty as judge, and the people of Kirkwall were anxious to know what justice would look like in this brave new world. Bran had explained at great length how important it was to show them that law and order were truly restored. It was why he had bullied Varric into taking part in this farce in the first place. (Really though, Varric was convinced it was revenge for attempting to pawn the viscount’s circlet last Tuesday when he’d run out of loose change.)

The seneschal, standing slightly behind and to the right as he read out the list of charges, discretely kicked the Dwarf’s throne, and Varric snapped back to the proceedings.

“…and public intoxication. How do you plead?”

“Guilty!”

Looking entirely too pleased with himself for a man on trial and wearing uncomfortable handcuffs, Hawke beamed up at the viscount and seneschal. Hawke, former (and newly reinstated!) Champion of Kirkwall and current pain in Varric’s ass. Yeah, that was the real reason the throne room was crowded. Varric groaned, and spoke before he could help himself.

“Couldn’t you have just not gotten caught?”

The crowd gasped in equal parts outrage and glee, and Varric’s headache worsened. It was hot and humid in the room, too many nosy onlookers stuffed into it. The people of Kirkwall would do anything to be where the fun was, and this was looking to be the event of the month.

“Me, run from the law?” Hawke’s scandalised squawk had a thread of pure delight running through it. “You _wound_ me, messere!”

“No, really, Hawke,” said Varric, frowning and easily ignoring Bran’s own outraged squawking behind him. “Why are you here?”

“Do any of us really know why we’re here?” His old friend said happily. Then, catching sight of Varric’s hand slowly drifting towards the side of the throne where Bianca was propped up, he hastened on. “Honestly, Varric, I just wanted to demonstrate to the good people of Kirkwall that no one is truly above the law.”

The beatific look on his face really sold it, Varric decided, as the crowd’s shocked gasps turned to tittering, and approving murmurs. His headache lifted a bit, and he shifted in his throne to slouch more comfortably. If he was forced to go along with this, he might as well try to sell it.

“And do you have anything to say in your defence, o guilty Champion of Kirkwall?” He put in a boatload of pompous condescension into his voice.

“In my defence,” said Hawke. “The aggravated assault (as well as all the other violent charges) was against slavers, and the ‘theft’ was me setting free the Elves they’d captured, o esteemed Viscount of Kirkwall.”

He reached into a pouch on his belt and, with a flourish that set his handcuffs clinking, threw six small tokens onto the ground before Varric. The dwarf leaned down slowly to pick one up, his mind whirring. The token was bloody and dirty, but underneath was the unmistakable insignia of the Raiders of the Waking Sea.

The crowd gasped again and burst into excited muttering, and Varric darted a glance at his seneschal. The Human was looking straight ahead, face carefully blank, muscles tense. He must have known the real details of Hawke’s ‘crime’, and had been convinced to help. Maybe not that stuffy after all.

“I notice there was no charge of murder on your list,” said Varric abruptly, sitting up straight. What was Hawke playing at? “Are the slavers..?”

“Oh, they’re dead,” Hawke pursed his lips, annoyed. “But Fenris got to them quicker than me.”

Translation: Fenris was definitely involved; this wasn’t some bizarre courtship ritual on Hawke’s part.

“And where is the Elf?”

“He doesn’t have the same high appreciation for the judicial institution as I do!”

Translation: Fenris was definitely involved, had maybe even co-planned the whole mess.

Then again, maybe not. His old friends had many fine qualities, but careful intrigue and planning wasn’t usually one of them. That was more the line of his other group of old friends, the Inquisition. It made sense. A chance to have the new viscount of one of the biggest city-states in the Free Marches publicly denounce the mistreatment of elves? As one of his first official acts, just a fortnight after throwing his support behind the Dalish council in Wycome, and with the aid of the once again extremely popular Champion of Kirkwall no less? Nightingale, or whoever her replacement was, must have been jumping up and down in glee. Hawke and Fenris were probably just fulfilling some debt owed, or currying favor for future needs.

Well, Varric supposed he didn’t mind being used for a good cause, just this once.

“Give my regards and my thanks to him, then,” he said smoothly.

The Champion’s grin sharpened as he saw that Varric had caught on and he could hear Bran’s quiet, shaky sigh next to his ear; the crowd drew in a sharp breath as one.

“As for the assault charges,” Varric continued, trying to recall how the judge characters in his latest series of crime novels spoke. “They are dismissed on the grounds of being utterly ridiculous. _Elves are not property_. They are the same as any other Kirkwaller – equal to Humans,” he nodded at Hawke, “and to Dwarves. You cannot steal an Elf – though you can kidnap one, and taking part in the slave trade is a crime punishable by death.” The room was quiet, the crowd still, and Varric put the cherry on top in a clear voice. “The court thanks you for executing its justice, serrah.”

Let the court record show that the good people of Kirkwall would always put a good show above any personal prejudices, thought the Dwarf fondly, as the room positively erupted in shrieks, gasps – and cheers. And then Hawke bowed (with a flourish, of course, because that was how he did most things), and someone started clapping, and Varric had a chance to look around the hall.

Near the front of the crowd, he spotted a tight huddle of some of the slimier members of Kirkwall nobility. He knew for a fact that Lady Aislin and Lord Fergal had expanded their fortunes through business agreements with slavers, and he watched in satisfaction as their faces grew deathly pale and they murmured frantically with their friends. There was real terror in their eyes, fear of the Viscount setting his guard dog Champion on them, fear of Hawke raining lightning and justice upon them. Right, that was good.

On the other side of the hall, a dozen Elves from the Alienage stood in a tight huddle near one of the pillars. Only the youngest of their group was smiling, positively beaming with joy, and when she noticed him notice her, she turned bright red and curtsied; he winked at her. The older Elves just looked stunned. He recognised one of them as Elren, whose daughter Hawke had saved so many years ago when the Kirkwall court had failed its duty to the Elves. He had tears in his eyes. That was even better.

Then, a third, solitary figure caught his gaze. A familiar agent giving an even more familiar salute. Varric’s good mood plummeted quickly.

On the other hand, the room really was stuffy, and his headache, though receding, was still there. Besides which – this was a one-off, he was _not_ about to let it become a habit for his beloved Kirkwall to be used as a front for the Inquisition’s machinations. Next time, Hawke was going to have to firmly tell the Inquisition that they could get their kicks elsewhere.

“One last thing, however,” began Varric, voice cutting through the clamor smoothly. The crowd quieted immediately, eager to hear what else was going to happen. “The crime of public intoxication…”

He shook his head sadly. To his immense satisfaction, the shit-eating grin on Hawke’s face froze into a sudden grimace. (Did they even have a law against public intoxication in Kirkwall? If they did, he’d be in court all day – as both judge and defendant. Nevertheless.)

“ _No one is truly above the law_ , was it?” he said idly.

“They sure aren’t,” agreed Hawke, face growing paler by the second under his smile.

Now, what should he..? Ah yes.

“And you agree that the punishment should fit the crime?”

“It sure should.”

“Hmm, and do you recall, a good five years ago, a certain someone drunkenly betting me that he could walk all the way to the top of the Sundermount on his hands? And that certain someone bowing out last minute because of the truly _terrible_ hangover he had the following day?”

Once he found the right words to describe the expression on Hawke’s face, this was definitely going in his next book.

“I think it would only be fair if you fulfilled the conditions of that bet _exactly_. A person has to learn the dangers of excessive drinking somehow, serrah. Let’s see, everyone knows the Champion usually drinks on Fridays, and I’ve heard Saturday is supposed to be a wonderfully sunny day…”

He supposed the absolute delight on the young Elf girl’s face excused Broody’s involvement in this. Was there anything else?

“Moreover, as this is an important event, the first judgment carried out by your new viscount, I think it only correct for someone as important to my administration as Seneschal Bran Cavin to supervise.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bran turn a flustered red, sputtering. A few hours under the sun with a cranky Hawke would do him good. He locked eyes with Hawke. His friend was extremely pale, and his eyes huge and pleading; Hawke's hangover headaches were a legend in their own right. Varric beamed back at him, mirroring the Human’s earlier earnest, helpful expression. Around them, the crowd sniggered quietly, grinning predators encircling their prey. The people of Kirkwall vaguely liked the idea of equality, and they definitely liked their Champion, but all that was nothing compared to how much they liked petty revenge and humiliation. Hawke would have a nice big crowd watching him this Saturday.

“I’ll see you on Friday for our regular round,” Varric added, almost as an afterthought. “Believe me, the drinks will be on me.”

And Hawke, for all that he had been born in Ferelden, was Kirkwallian through and through now too. He nodded slightly at Varric, showing he’d been bested, and then gave a loud, put-upon sigh.

“Your will, Viscount,” said Hawke, turned on his heel, and strode out of the throne room to another round of applause, back straight as a rod.

Varric hoped it would take him a while to find Isabela and get his handcuffs unlocked.

Maybe this day was looking up.

* * *

**CODA: …No Good Day _s_**

“Varric!”

“Hawke.”

Varric stared at the Human, absolute horror on his face. Hadn’t Hawke had enough? Varric certainly had. Hawke had swung by his home the day after his Sundermount climb and saluted, his hands clumsily bandaged. The idiot was stubborn as a goat – instead of taking the humiliation and hangover headache at the bottom of the mountain as his intended ‘punishment’ and then _giving up_ as a normal person would, he’d actually climbed all the way to the top, and brought Varric back an Embrium flower to prove it.

What was he up to this time?

Then again, he looked mildly concussed. There was a long, shallow cut splitting his brow. Maybe he genuinely _hadn’t_ been able to run away quickly enough for once.

The room was, if anything, even more crowded; it seemed all of Kirkwall wanted to see their Viscount and their Champion facing off, part two. With every breath he took, he smelled each of Kirkwall’s distinct areas, Darktown grime mixing with Hightown perfume. The back of Varric’s neck itched. What, Dwarves were allowed to feel claustrophobic sometimes too, alright?

Varric had to nip this in the bud.

“Your punishment,” he said simply, to the displeased sighs of the crowd, “is to go to Daisy and help her bandage you up. Then, as thanks for helping you out, make her a dozen garlands of all the nicest flowers you can find – not buy, mind you. Hand-picked only, if you please.”

There, that should keep him out of trouble for a few hours at least. The crowd looked disappointed at the shortness of the trial – good, there wouldn’t be a part three to this saga.

“Your will, Viscount!” said Hawke, saluting sloppily.

Varric followed his weaving, stumbling walk out of the room with a frown.

“Bran,” he sighed. “Go make sure he doesn’t fall on his face before getting there, will you?”

–*–*–

Of course there was a part three, and four, and five. Varric stopped counting after that.

“This is a child’s squabble,” he said, as firmly as he could.

He hated judging criminals at the best of times. He could, just barely, see the point in judging murderers and the like – although he’d never gotten a straight answer as to why _he_ had to do it – but this was just plain stupid. At least the throne room was empty except for him and his seneschal – and the defendant and his accuser, of course.

Hawke threw his friend a wink, while beside him, the Orlesian ambassador fumed. Probably fumed, anyway; Varric hated those masks with a passion.

“ _Au contraire_ ,” said the ambassador haughtily. “Your Champion and his… paramour,” at that, Hawke glowered, “decided to insult myself, and thus by extension my very country! At a ball that was supposed to represent our growing friendship, no less.”

“Insult your very country,” repeated Varric skeptically. “By throwing shrimps at you.”

Sera would be proud.

The ambassador crossed his arms and Varric turned back to Hawke.

“And Fenris isn’t here with you because..?”

“He doesn’t have the same high appreciation for – ”

“– the judicial institution as you do, right.”

The Dwarf sighed.

“So where’d you hit him?”

Of course, _that_ remark was followed by an infuriated screech from the ambassador, echoed by an equally infuriated yelp from Bran.

“ _Excusez-moi?!_ Is this how justice in Kirkwall is carried out – ”

“That is _entirely_ beside the point, Viscount – ”

Both men started talking at once, but Varric just stared at Hawke, who had gone curiously red.

“You didn’t hit him?” The Dwarf asked, even more incredulous now. He’d seen the mage hit bowstrings with fireballs from a good fifty metres away. Of this whole affair, this was the most absurd bit.

“We were very drunk, Varric,” muttered the Champion, looking for all the world like a naughty child.

“Right,” said Varric. “That explains it, of course. Bran, draw up a nice target for our Champion. Hawke, you’re going to drink as much as you did last night. Then you’re going to toss appetisers at it _until you actually hit your mark_. If you’re going to do something this ridiculous, you have to do it in a way that doesn’t embarrass our city’s good name.”

If looks could kill, Varric would have been dead twice over. His ears ached pre-emptively as both the ambassador and the seneschal drew equally deep breaths to shout some more.

And found they couldn’t, as a gleefully grinning Hawke cast a Glyph of Silencing. They flapped their arms angrily, but no sound emerged from their frantically moving mouths.

“It doesn’t last that long,” advised Hawke. “You should probably get out of here quickly.”

Varric nodded at him, and hopped off his throne.

“Don’t think this gets you out of target practice,” he warned.

“I wouldn’t dream of it!” Hawke said, sounding genuinely offended. “Your will, Viscount.”

And with that, he swept a deep bow to Varric, fluttered his handcuffed hands at the ambassador and Bran, and waltzed out of the room.

A quick look at the furious men he was left alone with, and Varric quickly followed suit.

(“You shouldn’t let me judge if you don’t like my judgments,” he fired over his shoulder, but with little hope. Bran forced him back into court a week later – Hawke again.)

–*–*–

“Hawke, if you allow yourself to get dragged here any more often, I’m going to think you’re pining for me.”

“How do you know I’m not pining for you (and your gorgeous chesthair), dearest Varric?!”

“Andraste’s dimpled buttcheeks, Hawke, I am _not_ waking up to a cranky Elf’s fist around my heart.”

“He wouldn’t – ”

“Your punishment is to write the soppiest love poetry you can manage and serenade Fenris with it until he forgets what you just said, alright?”

“Heh, your will, Viscount.”

–*–*–

“If those kids are so keen to risk their life imitating you, they may as well go the whole way. You’re to make them each a miniature version of your usual outfit, including your ridiculous blood swipe – ”

“Hey!”

“– and little fake beards. Maybe once they see how silly they look, they’ll see how silly they’re _behaving_.”

“…Your will, Viscount.”

–*–*–

“Really, a _whole_ bear? Alright, I’m impressed. Go write up a full report, _in detail_ , and send it to the Seeker.”

“Your will, Viscount!”

–*–*–

“…Just go sweep the sunshine off the sidewalk, Hawke.”

“Your will, Viscount.”

–*–*–

“…and, of course, public urination.”

Varric slumped in his throne, feeling defeated.

Hawke, as always, looked utterly unrepentant. So did the guards who’d brought him in, dumped him in front of Varric, and now cheerfully strode out of the hall. For the past year, the Champion had been brought before the court more often than any actual criminal in Kirkwall – even more often than Casey The Lowtown Streaker. Lately, Varric saw Hawke more often in court than outside of it. Where before his sentencing had drawn crowds, people now just rolled their eyes affectionately at their Champion being led through the streets in chains.

He’d been brought in on every charge imaginable, from inciting riots (“Honestly, Varric, all I said was that it was unfair that the mashed potatoes they serve in Hightown are nicer than those in Lowtown, the rest was all them!”) to, now, public urination. It didn’t matter if his infraction was something the guards would usually handle at the scene of the crime either. From what Varric could gather, any attempts to arrest him lead to Hawke running off like he’d always done – _unless_ the guards threatened to take him to the viscount. Then he’d hold still, meek as a halla, and let himself be handcuffed and dragged away.

Varric was pretty sure this was all an elaborate joke, but he wasn’t sure what the joke was supposed to be _about_.

For all that Varric just gave his friend silly, useless punishments, the guards seemed to enjoy bringing Hawke in. He was pretty sure Aveline had made a training exercise out of it: the guards attempted to corner Hawke in traditional ways, and resorted to their ‘cheat’ only when they were absolutely exhausted. Then again, maybe they were just happy to finally get a chance to get back at the Champion after all his years of shenanigans – there always seemed to be the odd fresh bruise or two blossoming on his friend’s face or arms, and his wrists were permanently chafed, sometimes even oozing blood, courtesy of those awful handcuffs. For all that Hawke went willingly, the guards were none too gentle with their prisoner.

Not that Hawke seemed to mind. He always looked happy when they dragged him in – slightly concussed, sometimes, but happy. And he completed every single one of his punishments with surprising eagerness. At first Varric had thought this was some sort of ploy to make it clear to Kirkwall that the Champion unequivocally accepted Varric as the ruler of the city. (Although Hawke had never mentioned it, he knew a couple of the more radical factions had gone to the mage soon after he'd got back from Weisshaupt, and proposed to overthrow Varric and install Hawke as Viscount. He’d been touched when Isabela had told him that Hawke had laughed in their faces, then kicked them out of the Hanged Man with extreme prejudice.) But anybody who was going to get the point _must_ have gotten it already. There was no reason for this ongoing farce – surely the court trials interrupted Hawke’s days as much as they did Varric’s. Even Bran had stopped coming to his sessions with Hawke, muttering about how much time they took.

“Look, Hawke, do you actually _enjoy_ being dragged in here?” Varric said, exhausted.

“Of course not!” replied Hawke, eyes wide. Eyes slightly too wide – there was that all too familiar wary look in them, the one he always got when he lied. It was a wonder he’d managed to evade the Templars as long as he had. Of course, the Templars hadn’t had a front row seat to him lying through his teeth for near ten years straight.

“You _do?!_ ” the Viscount asked incredulously. Two spots of colour appeared high on Hawke’s cheeks. Busted. Varric pinched the bridge of his nose. “Because I don’t. I don’t enjoy seeing _my friend_ covered in suspicious bruises all the time. I don’t enjoy having to decide _my friend_ ’s fate every couple weeks – sometimes more often.” To his immense satisfaction, Hawke shifted slightly. Guiltily. Time to press in. “I don’t enjoy only ever seeing _my friend_ from the seat of judge, jury, and executioner – ”

“That’s just because you never get _out_ of that seat – ” interrupted Hawke. There was the barest trace of a whine in his voice. Then he slammed his mouth shut so hard his jaw rattled. The colour on his cheeks had spread until his whole face was bright, tomato red.

They stared at each other, the Human absolutely mortified, the Dwarf bewildered.

Several things suddenly clicked into place for Varric. He was very glad the throne room was empty except for the two of them.

“Hawke…” he said gently. “Why didn’t you say you missed us hanging out?”

For the first time, Hawke looked uncomfortable in his handcuffs. He tugged at them, flexing his hands. Little wisps of smoke gently curled up from his fingertips, and Varric watched them in fascination. He’d told Varric once that flames had always come easiest to him – he’d had to learn how to tamp down the nervous, reflexive urge to cast fire by age ten. In their long years of friendship, this was the first time Varric had seen his control slip.

But he spoke steadily enough, as though Varric couldn’t see the anxiety strumming through his body from head to toe.

“What are you talking about?” Hawke said, eyes darting around the room. “You’re busy Viscount-ing, I’m busy Champion-ing. Who has time for anything else?”

Who indeed? When was the last time this year that Varric had had the time to sit down at the Hanged Man? Relax with his friends, play a few rounds of Wicked Grace? Go on an absolutely ridiculous adventure with Hawke? He sighed heavily. Her Inquisitorialness had rubbed off on him, he realised ruefully.

“I do,” he told Hawke, looking him square in the eye. He jumped off the throne, and carelessly threw his circlet back on it.

“Varric, don’t be silly, just because I’m acting like a child – ”

“I’m not, and you aren’t,” argued back Varric. “I love Kirkwall, but I should be allowed to have a life outside of caring for it.”

“But – ”

“Andraste’s flaming knickers, Hawke! _My friend is resorting to getting arrested for a five-minute chat with me._ What do you think I should take from that?!”

A direct hit. Hawke stared at him silently, fists clenched and shoulders hunched. The air in the room grew warmer. Varric doubted Hawke was doing it on purpose - he was concentrating only on Varric's face.

The Dwarf continued more softly: “You’re right and I’m wrong. Isn’t that what everyone wants to hear? So: I’m taking a month off.”

And when he found the right words, he’d write down the way this expression of Hawke’s looked too. A stunned mixture of guilt and embarrassment – along with a dash of happiness. The mage gulped convulsively a few times; the temperature in the room fell. Varric realised with a jolt that he’d forgotten how different Hawke’s real smile looked from the beaming grin he pulled at trial.

“Alright, then,” Varric murmured.

“Alright, then,” repeated Hawke, even quieter.

There was a small, hard lump in his throat, and Varric hastily coughed to clear it. The last time he'd seen Hawke look so dazed, the mage had been down a good two pints of blood. He didn't exactly relish being the one to have twisted the knife this time.

“One last order before I go on vacation though – Hawke, there’s still your punishment for, what was it, public urination?”

“What?” Hawke yelped, jolting out of his stupor. The puppy-dog eyes he shot at Varric spoke of ultimate betrayal. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Varric informed him drily. “And for wasting the court’s time when you should have just talked to me. This weekend, I’m going to sit down and write the next chapter of my book, and meanwhile _you’re_ going to head over to Aveline. It’s insane that whole squadrons of guards have only been able to bring you down _once_ this year without you literally helping them put the handcuffs on. And that was when you had a concussion!”

A small guilty laugh escaped Hawke.

“That was…” Varric groaned. “Really, Hawke? When you willingly _got_ yourself a concussion?”

“I didn’t think you’d buy it otherwise,” came the weak protest.

The Dwarf closed his eyes. Yeah, thinking ahead was not one of the Champion’s strong suits. How had Fenris not knocked some sense into him yet? Then again – it was Fenris. Their relationship was a bit beyond Varric; maybe the Elf found it sweet.

“Go teach the guards some good tricks,” he told his friend firmly.

 _So the next time you do get dragged in, you better have gone down kicking_ , Varric did not add.

Hawke heard it anyway. He sighed.

“Your will, Varric. …Now could you get me out of these handcuffs?”

* * *

**CODA to the CODA:**   **Champion Hawke and the Wonderful, Amazing, Not Bad, Very Fun Days**

The Hanged Man was, as always, the Hanged Man – cheerful, loud, and very drunk. There stood the grimy bar, there lay the wasted customers, and there sat the Champion and his friends, at their usual table.

The table was shoved into one of the far corners of the room, and had a direct line of sight to the front doors. In earlier times, that had been so that the occupants could see Templars and mercenaries coming in; now, they just used it to avoid overeager fans who wanted to try their strength against Hawke.

Hawke sat at his usual spot, and stared mournfully at Varric’s usual spot, then at the door, then at Varric’s usual spot again. Varric’s usual spot was empty, but a tankard of ale stood on the table in front of it. It matched the glass of wine at Anders’ empty spot, thought Hawke, despondent – except lately, Anders wrote letters more often than Varric came by. (Only Merrill responded to every single one, but it was still something.)

“Cheer up, brother,” said Carver and slapped Hawke on the back so heartily that he almost faceplanted into the table. “I’ll be here for a while yet, remember? That’s what a ‘welcome back’ party means – we’ll have plenty of time to all drink together.”

That’s what they were here to celebrate: Carver coming home from helping Commander Cullen in establishing a support network for former Templars. He had decided to continue the work in Kirkwall for now. Varric had been there with the rest of the ‘welcoming committee’ to cheerfully clap him on the back when he’d first arrived (the first time Hawke had seen him outside of court for a month), but he’d left in a swirl of important-looking documents immediately after.

“It’s not just about you, though,” said Hawke. (Carver rolled his eyes.) “Varric _never_ has time for anything fun anymore.”

He hated how _whiny_ he sounded, even to himself. It was the beer talking, he told himself firmly. Beer always made him mopey.

“Why don’t you just go and talk to him?” Aveline interjected in a reasonable voice. “You can’t get arrested right now anyways – it’s late, and I’m off-duty.”

Ha, a reasonable voice with an extremely unreasonable suggestion! Hawke was fast approaching forty – he couldn’t act like a sulky youngster, begging Varric to abandon his work and go gallivanting around Lowtown with him like they had when they were young. Besides which, Hawke didn’t _want_ Varric to work less. Hawke loved Kirkwall deeply, and Varric was good for Kirkwall. Sure, Hawke had thrived in the haphazard, backstabbing mess that had characterised Kirkwall before, but not everyone did. Varric’s organised chaos was far, far better for the everyday person. And if Varric passionately working eighteen hours a day, no breaks, was what kept it running so smoothly, Hawke would chop his own arm off before he asked him to stop.

But he didn’t know how to say that without sounding pathetic. It wasn’t like he was the only one who missed Varric, after all. He was just the only one stupid enough to not know when to get over it.

“He’s busy,” he said instead.

“Well I think it’s sweet,” announced Merrill.

“Of course you do, kitten. Sweet as poisoned daggers,” sighed Isabela. She slid Anders’ wine closer – symbolic gestures were all very well, but there was no sense letting alcohol go to waste. “Hawke, darling, don’t you think you’re just _adding_ to his workload?”

Hawke shifted in his seat guiltily. What, so he was selfish, alright? And _technically_ he wasn't interrupting his friend to joke around at work - he was being brought in on official business! _Plus_ he did whatever stupid thing Varric assigned for annoying him without question, right? There you go, sorted – his selfishness was punished each time.

“It’s good for morale though!” he argued back, mainly to drown out his own guilt. “The mighty Champion (that’s me) willingly bowing his head to the cunning Viscount (that’s Varric).  _And_ it’s good training for the guards. They almost got me last time.”

“No they didn’t, Hawke,” said Aveline.

“…No they didn’t!” he agreed with a genuine grin. “But they’re getting quicker. Practically providing a free service to the city, I am.”

The Guard-Captain looked him over, considering, lips pursed. Hawke attempted to look exceedingly helpful. He pulled on one of his sleeves discretely, trying to cover a bruise on his forearm in the shape of a hand. Guardsman Mahon never seemed to accept that Hawke was ready to come along willingly.

Of course, his tugging just made Aveline zero in on the bruise. She frowned at Hawke, who quickly switched expressions from helpful to guileless.

“Have it your way, then,” she said finally. “You always do. Next time though, I expect a full report on the people who’re getting… frisky in their arrests. I need to figure out if they’re as violent with other criminals, or if you just bring out that special something in people.”

Hawke gave her a crooked grin and even crookeder salute, as Isabela and Carver groaned.

“Don’t _you_ have something to say to all this?” Carver groused, turning to Fenris.

Fenris had had a lot to say, actually. He’d started with, “This is a waste of time, Hawke,” and ended with, “ _You_ were the one who always insisted on talking about feelings with me, why do you never follow your own advice?” Hawke had been able to win him over eventually though – probably because he’d actually managed to stammer out his full thoughts on the matter one night. It had been dark enough that he hadn’t had to watch Fenris’ face as he spoke, hands curling and uncurling. But Fenris had just sighed, given Hawke a quick peck on the cheek, and helped him start a massive brawl in the Gallows the next morning. Hawke didn’t deserve him.

Now, Fenris finished off the last drops of his wine, before raising an eyebrow at Carver.

“I’m not your brother’s keeper,” he said mildly.

“Aww, he thinks it’s cute too!” Merrill chimed in.

It was truly amazing to how much all his friends had grown up, thought Hawke when Fenris did not start spitting insults or reach for his sword. Instead, the warrior just shrugged noncommittally at the other Elf, and then reached for Varric’s tankard. He shot Hawke a lazy smile, leaving the Champion blushing. Hey, ‘cute’ was pretty good. He’d take ‘cute’ over ‘pathetic’ any day.

“More like he likes how Hawke looks in handcuffs,” Isabela wiggled her eyebrows wisely.

 _That_ sent Hawke choking on his beer, and Fenris’ smile curled up into a smirk.

“He has been going straight home after court recently, hasn’t he?” Merrill sounded absolutely delighted. “I don’t meet him wandering around town like a lost puppy anymore, looking for you.”

“Mmm, yes,” continued Isabela dreamily. “That would just be a waste of perfectly good handcuffs.”

Alright, if _Fenris_ wasn’t ready to defend their honour, Hawke would have to. He opened his mouth (to sputter something incoherent, no doubt) – but Carver beat him to the punch.

“ _Enough!_ ” he yelled. “I don’t need to hear the details, alright?!”

“Yes, let’s get this celebration back on track,” added Aveline and raised her glass. “To Carver – welcome home!”

“Hear, hear,” Hawke hastily raised his glass too.

The others raised their glasses as well, and to Hawke’s immense relief, the party continued on as normal, the topic dropped.

Except that Isabela kept wiggling her eyebrows at him, and Merrill kept giggling in Fenris’ general direction. And Aveline kept shooting him mildly pitying looks, and Carver kept looking disgruntled when he glimpsed Hawke’s wrists – but maybe that was just Carver’s usual face. And Fenris… Fenris actually leaned over and ruffled his hair fondly.

…His friends were the worst.

(Eight months later, Hawke walked into the Hanged Man to find that, as always, it stayed the Hanged Man. His friends were at their usual table, far too engrossed in conversation to see him come in. Anders’ spot was still empty – but at the head of the table, in Varric’s usual spot, there sat the Dwarf himself. He was laughing hard at something Isabela was saying; his other friends were enthusiastically nodding along to her words. With a big smile, Hawke strode over to join them.

“– really, Varric, his _face_ – I never knew humans could make such an expression! Like a Mabari missing its owner. Can _Tales of the Champion Volume II_ just have a chapter titled _The Year Hawke Was So Lonely He Decided To Explore His Kinkier Side With All The Town’s Guards_ – ”

Hawke’s stride turned into a run, and he interrupted Isabela with a flying tackle.

Yeah, thought Hawke fondly amidst the shrieks and laughter, his friends really were the worst.)

END.

**Author's Note:**

> Because I'm lame and uncreative, the punishment about throwing stuff because of missing a target, and the punishment about sweeping sunshine were taken/expanded from [two](http://thoughtcatalog.com/hok-leahcim/2014/03/30-people-share-the-most-creative-punishment-they-have-ever-received/) [lists](http://taskandpurpose.com/funniest-punishments-military-reddit/) of funny punishments online because they cracked me up so bad. Hope you guys enjoyed the fic, check out the lists of punishments cuz they're hilarious. 
> 
> The good people of Kirkwall are loosely based on the good people of Ankh-Morpork because come on. :V


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